


don't swallow the cap

by scorpiod



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Awkward First Times, Child Abuse, Hand Jobs, High Sex, M/M, Mentioned Sonia Kaspbrak, Recreational Drug Use, Shotgunning, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Underage Sex, Vomiting, mentions of/implications mainly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 20:01:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21258839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scorpiod/pseuds/scorpiod
Summary: Richie comes over to keep Eddie company, with a proposition for him.OR AKA, the one where Richie and Eddie get stoned together.





	don't swallow the cap

**Author's Note:**

  * For [hearthouses](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hearthouses/gifts).

> 1\. Richie and Eddie are fifteen, so about two years after the first movie. 
> 
> 2\. Richie and Eddie are both stoned when engaging in sexual activity, so while I personally do not consider this dubious consent, because I am all the all seeing, all knowing author, YMMV.

Eddie fucking hates having anyone over. 

He never likes bringing his friends over for too long, especially when his mom is home and he has to kiss her in front of them. But even when she's not, it always makes him hot with embarrassment having people over—all the medications in the cabinet, his constant food allergies leading to the weird food his mom has made and left for him, bland and congealed and  _ healthy _ , in theory. His room was always in pristine condition, Eddie couldn't bear to leave it a mess, but the rest of his house was another story. 

They didn't live in a pigsty, by any means, but the house always smelled funny—equal parts clinical sterilization, various lotions and powders, the cabbage soup his mom liked to make, strange herbs and powders his mom liked to keep around. The curtains were always drawn tight, like Sonia Kaspbrak was allergic to light, bathing the house in a dark amber glow during the day instead of letting sunlight stream in. 

( _ Mommy, _ he tried to talk to her, _ but Vitamin D is good for me, I looked it up in the library, _ but she insisted his skin was too sensitive, that he'd get cancer from too much sun, poke at the tiny little mole on his face, _ be careful, Eddie bear, you don't want that growing) _

His mother’s room was the worst. He hates going in there. It smells different than the rest of his house, more like a funeral parlor than a hospital waiting room. She hasn't changed it since his dad died—same sheets in the bed, same curtains. His clothes in her closest still, stinking of dust bunnies and mothballs, and a cloying, thick smell he couldn't identify, but made him choke and reach for his inhaler. 

It always made him think of his dad, even if he couldn't actually remember him. 

It all served as a hot, flaming reminder that he wasn't normal, that he wasn't like other kids. Sure, Mike lived on a farm, and Stan’s dad was strict and kind of mean, and Richie’s parents were never around, but their houses felt normal. Eddie always felt like a freak when someone came over, even if none of his friends would ever say it out loud. 

But this week was different. 

Mommy’s great-aunt-whatever died and she needed to go to the funeral. Eddie stayed behind. He anticipated an argument, a fight, having to convince her it'd be better he'd not miss school than stay plastered at her side for a whole week—the thought of being alone with her for the whole weekend made his chest tight, constricting in on him. 

But she stroked his face instead, Eddie leaning into her touch out of routine even if she left slippery grease marks on his face from her creams, and told him, yes, it was too dangerous for him, his constitution was so fragile and Great Aunt Sophia was ravaged by disease, and  _ you need to stay safe, Eddie honey, you can't catch anything.  _

So she kissed him on his cheek and left some food pre-made, TV dinners she normally eschewed, and even twenty dollars for a pizza.  _ Isn't that a treat? _ she said in her pleasant, but condescending voice, the guilt trip mom voice, the  _ look what I've done for you  _ voice. 

With her gone and the house silent of her constant daytime tv and talk shows and courtroom dramas, it was almost normal. 

(For some reason, Mommy didn't like taking him to meet her relatives— 

No, not for some reason. 

At fifteen, Eddie understood perfectly well by now, even if he didn't want to, as the knowledge of what it meant settled inside him like a stone. She wanted him all to herself, didn't want to share him with any family members. Didn't want to risk anyone coming to take him away.)

  
  


*

  
  
He has his house alone to himself on Saturday night—Mommy won't be home until Monday evening—so this means Richie invites himself over, showing up at eight’o’clock with a giant grin plastered on his stupid face. 

( _ Eddie, my man,  _ Richie said, his voice oddly soft, and for once, only mildly teasing,  _ don't you think it's a little weird you still call your mom Mommy?  _ He poked Eddie in the belly, his finger squishing against his belly button, which made his insides feel fluttery, even through his shirt,  _ time to cut the umbilical cord, buddy _ )

“Hi, Loser!” Richie chirps at the door, leaving his bike on the front porch, wearing his school backpack. He steamrolls inside, brushing past Eddie without an invitation, like he lives here, too. “You wanna order us a pizza or something? I come with gifts!”

Eddie had gotten a growth spurt a little bit ago, which made him feel good to finally get some height on the others—until Stan and Richie hit growth spurts, too. Richie was now the tallest Loser, shooting up several inches in height, his legs too long, his arms too gangly, like looking more like a long skinny rod with dark mop of hair and pink lips and giant glasses than an actual person. 

It was totally unfair. 

“What?” Eddie asks. He shuts the door. “I thought we were gonna see a movie or something.”

Or the arcade, or Bill’s house. Bill had more stuff, a whole new nintendo, and parents who didn't care what he did as long as he was quiet. 

“Don't worry, Eds,” he says, pulling out a slew of VHS tapes to lay on the coffee table. He winks at Eddie. “I'll make it worth your while.”

Even behind his dumb glasses, Richie’s eyes gleam. Richie is decidedly not cool, ever, for a day in his life, but he thinks he is, and that almost made him circle back around to  _ cool  _ again. 

“What the fuck does that mean?” Eddie asks. Then, thinking it over, “Aren't Bill and Stan and the others supposed to come.”

“It's just us tonight,” Richie says. He flops on the couch, spreading out, legs wide, arms out, his whole too tall body taking up almost the whole thing. There was almost no room for him, and he wasn't about to sit on Mommy’s special recliner so he stays standing, awkwardly folding and unfolding his arms. 

“I brought a surprise,” Richie says, and pulls out a little ziplock bag, with what looks like greenish cooking herbs, and cigarettes, and— 

Oh. 

Oh, those weren't herbs. 

  
  


*   
  
  


Ten minutes later, and Eddie finally calms down to a vague, low-level wave of rage, rather than outright shock and horror. This is worse than the time Richie tried to get them to all watch porn together, which mostly made him feel kind of sick inside. 

“You brought fucking  _ pot _ to my house? To my house? What the fuck, Richie? My mom's gonna kill me!”

Eddie takes a sharp inhale of breath. He can feel an asthma attack coming in. He can't fucking believe Richie wants him to smoke pot. “You're actually trying to fucking kill me, you asshole.”

Eddie caught Richie and Bev, smoking out behind school once, and he'd been so furious he couldn't see straight, literally shaking as he screamed about lung cancer and carcinogens and how gross it was, and how they were both going to fucking die,  _ did you want that? _ His mother’s words, screaming out through him. 

He didn't care if Bev smoked—well, he cared, but it didn't feel like he could tell her not to—but Richie smoking pissed him off so bad he screamed for five minutes then stomped off. Richie goddamn laughed at him,  _ you're so goddamn cute when you get worked up like this, Ed _ . 

Richie did put out his cigarette though. That was months ago. Richie still smokes, but not where Eddie can smell it or see it, like a filthy secret. 

“No, she won't, and no I'm not,” Richie says. This is practiced. He  _ planned  _ this speech. “You're not gonna die from a little weed, you have your inhaler with you the whole time, and  _ Reefer Madness  _ lied to you, your life isn't going to be ruined because you smoked up once—”

“Richie—”

“Besides,” he adds. More serious. As serious as he can be. The threat of Sonia Kaspbrak was real. “It's not like she's here.”

Eddie points at the diabolical little ziplock bag, with its tempting green buds. “I know what that smells like! She will know, too!” 

The smell will linger. It'll infect the carpet, the sofa, the curtains. The way the smell of Frank Kaspbrak’s death still lingers in his mom’s room. 

Something in the way he's breathing hurts. He doesn't reach for his inhaler, but Richie stands up, grabs his arm with one hand, little weed ziplock baggie in his other hand. His eyes are very soft. 

“Look we don't have to,” Richie says, and suddenly there's a nervous energy to him, his long fingers trembling. He waves his arms around, pointing to nothing in particular. “I just thought it'd relax you and it'd be nice for a bit, I'm not trying to get you hooked on the Mary Jane—”

Eddie snorts. 

Not so much at Richie’s dumb comment, but the thought of him, hooked on drugs. Haha. Imagine his mother, coming home to a drug addled son. She might kill him. It might be worth it. 

“—so like, we can just pretend this never happened and watch some movies and I can go smoke it up with Stan later or—”

“You're not funny,” Eddie says, which is a lie, because the thought of Stan agreeing to get high hilarious to him.

Eddie grabs his arm. He does not say that Stan would never smoke pot in a million years.

_ Cut the umbilical cord already.  _

“We’re doing this in my room,” he says.

  
  


*

  
  


“So how does this work?”

They retreat to his room, both of them sitting in his bed, way too close to each other. Eddie didn't want to risk a lingering smell of weed in his living room, even if Mommy wouldn't come back for a few days yet. She could always come home early. 

The thought made his heart rate spike, his fingers shake, longing for the inhaler he doesn't actually need. It did not make him want to stop. 

Richie smirks, like victory. He leans back, stretching on his bed, lounging about, way too comfortable on Eddie’s stuff in Eddie’s space, while Eddie awkwardly sat still. “You inhale it, Eds—”

“I  _ know that,  _ trashmouth, but I'm not inhaling a bag of grass, am I?”

Richie throws back his head and laughs. Eddie forgets to be annoyed, because he stares at the long pale column of Richie’s throat, his Adam’s apple bobbing. 

“Alright alright, it's easy,” he says, pulling out one pre-rolled joint, that looked almost exactly like a cigarette but smaller, smelled different. “Be easier if we had a bong—”

“You are  _ not  _ bringing a bong in here—”

“—or at least a pipe,” Richie continues, uncaring. 

He pulls out a little zippo lighter from his shirt pocket and Eddie’s eyes fixate on the way Richie’s fingers casually flick it open, long and pale, how he carelessly lights up, bringing the joint to his mouth. He hates how he makes it look easy, comfortable,  _ cool,  _ a mouthful of smoke he sucks into his lungs. Richie is too pale and all bony elbows and wrists and as animated as a cartoon character, but Eddie can’t look away. Richie inhales, holds it in his mouth for a little bit, before letting all ( _ or some? _ Eddie couldn't tell) out into the air, a heavy cloud of thick grey sweet smelling smoke. 

Eddie, in a panic, waves it out of his face, but the smell was already heavy, going to seep into his clothes and sheets. He was gonna have to douse this room in Lysol and Pine Sol for days. It was too late to do anything about that. 

The curl of smoke Richie blows out makes Eddie think of toxic fumes. Eddie wants to blow it away, but there was something appealing about flirting with toxicity. About letting the poison sink in his guts and veins. Like pressing his hand on a hot stove, just to feel it. 

He's sure Richie doesn't think about it that way. It's just fun for him. It's only Eddie that's fixated and sickened and fascinated by his mouth on the joint, his lips, the overwhelming smell of it. 

“Jesus,” Eddie says, trying to hold back a cough, trying to dissipate the smoke. 

“Sorry, Eds,” Richie says. He was wiping his glasses now and the forbidden joint was resting casually on his knee. Waiting for him. 

“How long have you been doing this?”  _ My best friend is a stoner,  _ Eddie thought, and he didn't even know and he wants to die. “Where did you even get this stuff?”

Richie shrugs. “Work. One of the ushers at the movie theater.”

Eddie’s eyes bug out of his skull. “Who the fuck is selling you pot at work?”

Richie, with his foot, lightly nudges his hip in a playful gesture. “None of your business.”

“I want to know who's giving you drugs—”

“Eddie, just, cool your jets for a bit, okay? You can worry about adults corrupting my sweet, impressionable, teenage self later,” he says, reaching for his ziplock bag, fumbling through the bag, reaching for the thin paper inside, apparently deciding Eddie needed to be high right now. 

“I have to roll another one,” he says, and Eddie reaches for him, grabbing his leg to get his attention, hand sliding against the sliver of bare skin between his socks and his pant leg, riding up. 

“No,” Eddie protests, out stretching his other hand, nodding towards the already still lit joint. “Just give me that one.” Before he loses his nerve. 

“This one?” Richie says, holding up the joint he just smoked between his two fingers. “But, Eddie, Buddy, you don't know where my mouth has been,” he says, wiggling his eyebrows in the most over-the-top way he could possibly imagine. It's like he's  _ trying  _ to piss him off. 

“Don't remind me,” he spits out, and he shakes his hand impatiently. “Look—I don't care right now and you better give it to me before I start to care again, and change my mind.”

“Okay, okay,” Richie says, sitting up off the bed. He scoots closer to Eddie, until his warm weight is comfortably resting against him, shoulder to shoulder. He puts one arm around him, pulling him in even tighter against him. 

“Here, I'll show you,” he says. 

Eddie shivers, but he's not cold. The opposite, in fact. 

Richie hands him the joint directly and Eddie awkwardly grips it between his fingers. 

“Now—” Richie says, steady hand on his wrist. Eddie pulls away his hand. 

“I'm not a baby,” he protests. He's seen Richie and Bev and countless other adults smoke. It can't be that hard. 

He brings it to his mouth before he can overthink this and tries to inhale. 

Immediately, he starts coughing as the smoke hits his insides, the taste of it heady and overpowering on his tongue, coating his throat with thick dark plume of grey toxins. Eddie feels his airway constrict, starting to wheeze, that familiar pressure pulling at his insides. 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” Richie chants, sounding genuinely apologetic, grabbing the joint from him, arm around his shoulders now rubbing his back.  _ Where's your inhaler?  _ Eddie hears Richie say and Eddie is going to point to his fanny pack, but— 

_ It's not real. It's just a fucking placebo.  _

Eddie refused to take anymore pills since that summer, which didn't always work, his mom cornering him in his room and refusing to let him out to play or go to school, until he took his medicines—but he still refused, pocketing them, spitting them out, and gradually they were all phased out, except for the inhaler. Eddie still felt like he needed the thing, even if he knew he didn't actually have asthma. Not really. Not in a way that matters. He carried the inhaler around like a safety net, or a talisman, warding off pain and evil, but  _ it wasn't real.  _

He takes several deep breaths. It's hard at first, getting used to breathing again, repeating to himself  _ it's all bullshit, remember.  _ “I'm fine,” he manages to choke out. His voice is embarrassingly wheezy. “Give it back, I want to try again.”

“Are you—”

Eddie snatches the joint from his hand and takes in a deep inhale. 

He still coughs, when he exhales, but it's not as bad. His eyes burn from the sting of the smoke. Richie's hand on his back is soothing. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks. 

Eddie blinks. “Like I'm burning up,” he says. His eyes and chest feel inflamed and his nose itches, the way it did when he got a cold and his nose was going to start running soon. The aching burning sensation in his chest was spreading up his lungs and throat. 

“I do not feel high,” he complains, shaking his head, wondering just what the fuck else was wrong with his body. “This isn't really pleasant.”

“I could,” Richie starts, then stops himself, cutting himself off. His cheeks were pink, Eddie notices, eyes tinged red. Richie rarely ever shut himself up. Normally, Eddie would celebrate the moment. 

“Spit it out,” he says instead. 

“I could blow it into your mouth,” Richie says, very rapidly. 

Eddie frowns. “That sounds fucking stupid,” he says, but glancing at Richie’s face, eyebrows knotted in concerned, Eddie realizes he doesn't want to make him feel bad right now. That it wasn't fair to take this out on Richie. 

“So let's do it,” Eddie says. Nothing else more to lose. “Might as well.”

Richie sucked in a breath, of regular air, not weed smoke, as if he couldn't believe Eddie would agree, then nods, gently taking back the joint from his hand. 

“Keep your mouth open, okay,” he says. The words make his insides feel funny, twisting and churning. He wonders if it's the smoke that he ineptly sucked in. 

Still shoulder to shoulder, heat to heat, Eddie watches with a giddy fascination as Richie inhales deeply from the joint. 

Then he turns his body towards him, breaking contact and pulling away, only to place his hands on Eddie’s face, angling him upwards, so he’s staring up into Richie’s face. His fingers are warm and overheated on Eddie’s jaw, his cheekbones. 

Richie leans down and for a moment, it's almost like they're gonna kiss, lips too close, Eddie’s eyes going wide as his jaw opened for him with a strange sort of drug induced slackness. 

But Richie doesn't press their mouths together, just hovers his lips above his, near touch, near contact. In the back of Eddie’s mind, a thought forms, conjuring up the image, the shape of Richie’s lips, unexpectedly soft and warm and pink against his. 

He shudders with the image, right as Richie breathes in smoke into him. 

It's not the best attempt at it. Smoke doesn't all go in his mouth, whafts out behind him, curling out from Richie’s lips to his nose and face. But Eddie does as instructed—opens his mouth and sharply inhales as much as he can, letting Richie fill his lungs with it, the smoke smoother and almost sweet now, as he takes it all in. 

His chest feels heavy. His limbs start to feel heavy and loose, and his head is somehow spinning and dizzy while sitting still. 

No coughing this time, though. The smoke Richie filled him up with intoxicates him from the inside out. 

“Is that better?” Richie asks, tilting his head up, peering into his face with an almost exaggerated sense of concern.  _ Earth to Eddie, Earth to Eddie,  _ he says, which Eddie hears like there's cotton stuffed in his ears. His eyes are dark and wide, pupils covering the whole of them. Eddie could fall right in. 

The memory of a moment, sharp and sudden, like muscle memory, bursts out in his mind. 

_ It's greywater! Piss and shit! _

_ That's just your breath whafting back into your face.  _

Eddie dissolves into giggles. He falls back in the bed, flat on his back, sprawled out, all loose limbed and limber. The world tilts for a moment and he doesn't stop laughing, not even when Richie’s head pops over his, staring down at him. 

“Oh,” Richie says. “I think that may have been too much. You're all blotchy.”

Eddie laughs too loud in his ears and blissfully not mattering. Richie's head above him was bright and big, and strangely disconnected from the rest of him. 

“I want more,” Eddie says, taking slow, heavy breaths, out stretching his arm. His limbs feel heavy, but not in a bad way. He grabs the edges of Richie’s open shirt, lightly tugging. If he tried, he could pull him on top of him. He doesn't know if he means the joint, or Richie to breathe into him again. “I think it's working.” 

“Nah-huh,” Richie says, shakes his head, though a grin curls up in his mouth. “I'm cutting you off.”

“You can't cut me off in my own house,” Eddie says but he doesn't make any actual move for Richie’s drug stash. He swipes at him lazily, like a bored cat. “Gimme.”

“Eddie, you're a fucking lightweight, I'm not—”

Eddie grabs Richie by his shirt and pulls him on top of him. He takes a satisfying pleasure in the  _ oomph  _ noise he makes, momentarily knocking the air out of him. Richie manages to catch himself before he lands on top of him, his face inches from Eddie’s, Richie’s hair falling in his face, in Eddie’s face and Eddie sucks in a breath and— 

Richie starts tickling him, the  _ dickwad.  _

“No, no!” Eddie shouts, even as he's goddamn giggling, pushing Richie away. 

They roll around in the bed together, Richie’s fingers and hands on him, tickling him mercilessly, until Eddie manages to grab him by the wrists, holding him down against the bed. Richie's shirt had ridden up and his pale stomach was exposed, as well as the slightest hint of dark hair on his belly, leading down into his jeans. Eddie places his palm on his belly, like it was calling out to him, needing his handprint on Richie, feeling the rise and fall of his breathing. Richie’s skin is warm, and softer than he imagined. 

“You're so cute, Eds,” Richie says, not struggling even though his hand was free, taking in calm steady breaths, a big dopey grin stretching his mouth. 

“I'm not cute! I'm not cute! Take it back!” Eddie scream-shouts, and it feels so nice to just scream at the top of his lungs in his own house, with no one to get mad about it. “Take it back right now,  _ Dick _ !” But that only makes Richie laugh harder.

Eddie gets tired of play wrestling, play fighting with Richie eventually, collapsing in a heap on the bed together, Richie half on top of him, half in the bed, both of them panting heavily. The joint laid temporarily forgotten somewhere on the floor, and Eddie’s stomach was doing weird flip floppy things, his insides buzzing even as his limbs and brain felt slow and lazy. 

Eddie pushes on his shoulder, nudging him away. “I'm hungry,” he says. 

Richie nods and gets up, pulling Eddie up with him. “That happens. C’mon, I brought snacks.”   
  
  


*   
  
  


_ Fast Times at Ridgemont High  _ is playing in the living room, and Richie keeps up a running commentary, the whole movie, unable to shut his mouth, mimicking each character with his Voices, from Brad to Spicoli to Linda. 

Normally, this would bother Eddie— _ shut the fuck up, I'm trying to watch the movie _ —but Richie keeps making him laugh so he doesn't tell him to cut it out. Every time Sean Penn showed up doing his stupid stoned idiot act, Eddie points at the screen, and says,  _ hey that's your future.  _ Richie doesn’t even get mad, just throws back his head and cackles, like it’s new and funny every time. 

Eddie has his head in Richie’s lap, laying down across the couch, his legs pulled in close to his body, curled up like a pillbug, one arm over Richie’s thighs, while Richie sits up, feet kicked out on the coffee table. Eddie keeps thinking how his mom would be  _ so mad,  _ knowing Richie had his bare feet there, how gross it was, and giggling inappropriately all throughout the movie. Not even at all at the movie—he didn't actually like the movie very much, but it didn't bother him to watch it. 

Richie's hand was in his hair, lightly stroking his head, fingers gently rubbing his scalp, and Eddie didn't dare bring it up, didn’t dare draw attention to it, lest Richie get weird and self-conscious and take his hand away. He just basked and luxuriated in the sensation of it, warm and comfortable and overstuffed with junk food—Eddie could fall asleep like this, all loose-limbed and near-dozing, Richie’s hands on him.

They have stuffed their mouths full of snacks. Orange puffs, and Doritos and slightly burnt popcorn, along with two oranges Richie grabbed from Eddie’s kitchen to split between them, leaving Eddie’s teeth sticky and citrusy. Richie brought Coke, sickeningly cloying sweet, and Mommy didn’t like it when Eddie had caffeine ( _ Eddie,  _ she said, _ you can’t have that, do you know what it’ll do to you?) _ , so naturally, Eddie guzzled the drink.

Mommy left a lot of health food for him to eat, bland meals that don’t trigger his laundry list of allergies. Eddie’s starting to think he's not actually as allergic as he thinks he is. 

“Pretty sure I'm not supposed to eat these,” Eddie says, stuffing another nacho cheese Dorito in his mouth. His fingers were gross, covered in orange dust, caught under his fingernails. The chip bag was on the coffee table next to Richie’s feet and it was dangerously close to falling off the edge. Richie left discarded orange peels on the coffee table, too— _ gonna attract ants, _ Eddie thinks. That thought usually fills him with a tense panic, right in his chest, but now it's fine. Eddie wonders, if this is what normal people feel like all the time?

He licks his tongue around his teeth, and tastes the skuzzy remains of cheese puffs and fizzy soda. 

Richie shrugs. “I can take them away from you,” he offers, with a chuckle. “Eat them all.” Warm fingers in his hair, carding through the strands. Eddie sighs, softly, shutting his eyes. He might fall asleep here, right on Richie.

Everything was kind of pleasantly buzzing in his head. 

“Don’t you dare,” Eddie says, no bite to his voice. 

Eddie has forgotten completely about the passage of time. He couldn't tell you what time it was or how long he's been eating, how long he's been high. Time and space just blended together like a pleasant buzzing background noise. 

“Oh hey,” Richie says, nudging his shoulder. “Tit shot,” he says, pointing at the TV, glowing brightly in the dark room. 

On screen, Phoebe Cates gets out of the pool and takes off her red bikini top. Eddie knows he's supposed to be turned on by this, but her tits didn't really do anything for him. They were nice, he thought, her nipples stiff, but Eddie still didn't feel anything. 

Eddie rolls his eyes. “Gross,” he says. 

Richie again nudges his shoulder. “C’mon, you can't be calling Phoebe Cates gross.” His voice goes higher in pitch, prim and proper. Almost mom-like. “That's very  _ rude  _ of you, young man. Do I need to send you to your room?”

Eddie blames the drugs for what comes out of his mouth. 

“C’mon, Richie, we both know you're not into Phoebe Cates.”

Richie’s hand stills in his head, going shudder-shock still. In fact, Eddie can tell his whole body went still, tensing up at his words. 

Eddie whimpers. “Don't stop,” comes out of his mouth, before his brain filter can stop it and Richie sucks in a sharp breath, can feel the sudden rise and fall of his chest, like it was happening in his body as well, through him. 

“Eddie,” he says, and now he's trying to nudge Eddie off him, push him away. “Eddie, you gotta—can you move?”

He doesn't mention what Eddie said. 

Eddie moves alright. 

He shifts around, stretches and kicks out his legs, so they're hanging over the armrest. Shifts his shoulders and body and rolls on his back now, turning away from the television and looking up at Richie instead. His head, fully in his lap now, his back on Richie’s skinny thighs. Even through layers of clothing, Eddie could tell a Richie was overheated, feel the warmth of his crotch radiating up against his skin. 

Above him, Richie’s cheeks are very pink, blushing bright from the weed and Eddie’s line of questioning. 

“Eddie,” Richie tries again, his voice heart wrenchingly soft. His hand feels large on his shoulder, shoving too light to actually move Eddie. “You gotta— _ c’mon _ .”

Eddie blinks and shifts again, then feels Richie’s hard cock against the back of his neck, the line of it against the zipper of his fly. 

Oh. 

Eddie’s breath hitches. His mouth feels dry and he licks his lips, trying to hydrate himself. He stares up at Richie, forgetting all about the movie, taking deep breaths as he tries to focus. His mind spins and dizzies itself, running too far and too fast and away. 

The image of Richie’s cock pops in his head—he’s seen it a few times, in gym class (Eddie didn't actually  _ do  _ gym, Mommy had gotten a note from the doctor to keep him from doing anything strenuous, but he still had to change into gym clothes with everyone else), or during sleepovers, when Richie would casually change in front of him, and Eddie’s eyes were drawn to the pale curve of his spine and hip, before he guilty looks away. They've all seen each other in their underwear countless times, but seeing Richie made his insides feel funny. Like he was going to be sick, squirming and for the longest time he didn't know what to call it. 

Glimpses of it. Brief snapshots. Never up close and personal. Something that existed in the periphery of his vision, never letting himself actually look.

“Are you okay?” Richie asks. His face is funny. Those coke bottle glasses really magnified his eyes. Sometimes he looked like a praying mantis and Eddie giggles at the thought. “Eds? You're breathing funny.”

Eddie smiles, slow, languid, arching his back until Richie gasps, and Eddie could feel the warm heat of him against him, his stomach doing the warm flip-floppy thing again. He was already overheated, like a fever, to begin with. “I'm great,” he says, all pleasantly buzzed, high and hot. “Are  _ you  _ okay?”

It's not a good position. He can feel Richie’s dick, stiffen up against him the more he twitched and moved. The thought made heat flare up through his already sweltering body. He stretches his legs. Stretches and arches his back on Richie’s lap, like a cat. He could sit here forever, watching Richie’s face. His overly long hair that hung in his face. His stupid glasses that slung down the bridge of his nose. His rosy pink cheeks. He's been flushed since they smoked together, but it had darkened, cheeks red-hot 

Eddie smiles, bewildered. 

“Eddie?” Richie asks, uncharacteristically tentative. Not the boy who brought weed to his house and had him smoke it. Not his friend who encourages him to break all his mommy's rules. “Your eyes are kinda red.”

Eddie is panting. Not quite like he can't catch his breath. Not that way. This isn't an asthma attack, even as he becomes hyper aware of his own heart. Not racing in his chest, but a steady beating like a drum against his chest.  _ Boom boom boom.  _ Funny, weird, new, to be so aware of everything around him and not feel that familiar choking panic he always does. 

“Are we pretending you're not hard right now?” Eddie asks. 

“Jesus, Eddie,” Richie says and looks away, eyes turning upwards, away from him. Richie’s hand pulls away, and he pushes his palms against his eyes, under his glasses, digging in hard, breathing heavy. “I'm hard because Phoebe Cates is a babe with beautiful tits, not because—”

Eddie doesn't want to hear what he says next. He reaches up, grasping for Richie, managing to get an awkward arm around the back of his neck. His fingers rest on the scorching skin there. Eddie imagines digging his short blunt nails in. He could already feel his own cock throb in his shorts, his face turning somehow even hotter, but not with embarrassment—embarrassment was an emotion that was locked up tight somewhere far away. 

It's a bad angle, awkward as hell, but he doesn't want to let Richie drift away. 

“Oh, god,” Richie says, panting hard. His eyes are cartoonishly wide behind his glasses. Eddie can  _ feel  _ his dick twitch against his back, his jaw dropping open with surprise. “Oh god, holy shit, Eddie, you can't—”

Eddie gets up. Not off the couch—just twists around on the couch, trying to sit up. His limbs don't work right, uncoordinated, failing to sit up beside Richie. He's not succeeding well, ending up on his stomach instead, plastered against Richie's thighs. Richie’s cock pokes against his chest and Eddie's heart flutters. 

“Eddie,” Richie breathes, pushing at him. “Eddie, fuck, you gotta, you're surprisingly  _ heavy  _ for a little guy, buddy—”

He shifts again, pushing himself off, grabbing onto Richie’s shoulders, and pulling up, pushing against Richie until he's shoved up against him. He sort of just  _ lands  _ on Richie. Flops on him, smashed against him. If he were bigger, he could pin him down with his body, but as it is, Eddie is small and fits awkwardly, but comfortably into his lap, his body, nosing against his collarbone, hands trying to grasp onto  _ something _ . Eddie can smell Richie’s sweat, sharp and musky. 

Richie has gone totally still, except for the constant rise and fall of his chest, unable to shut up, muttering a panicked undercurrent of  _ fuck fuck fuck _ . Eddie lifts his head and Richie's holding his hands up, in front of him, like he wants to touch Eddie, but has forgotten how, forgotten the comfortable way they were laying together just a few short moments ago. 

Eddie takes a breath, and looks up at Richie. He grabs ahold of Richie's t-shirt, balling up the fabric with both hands tightly. His cock is hard, which he notes with a strange, pleasant detachment. It's just there. Hard in his shorts, tenting it out for Richie to see. Hot, like the rest of the body. Should embarrass him, he's always embarrassed when he gets boners in front of Richie, because Richie  _ never lets it go, _ but he can't access those feelings right now. It's just a fact. Eddie was lying on Richie and his dick was hard against him and he could tell Richie knew because he went still, so still, quieting for the first time. His eyes were big as saucers and he was staring Eddie. His cheeks were pink. Eddie was close enough to rub their noses together like little kids, butterfly and eskimo kisses. 

It's not the first time they've been like this. He feels like his whole life has been trying to climb on Richie in some way—dragging him in photo booths, half sitting on his lap in a hammock, lying across his legs. His whole life, with Richie wrapped around him. 

“Holy shit, Eddie, you’re high as fuck,” Richie says in a sharp, shuddering breath. 

Eddie, for some reason, finds this hilarious. He lets out a happy giggle.

Richie shakes his head. “Yeah you're too high for this, I'm taking advantage of you, holy shit I'm so—”

Still unable to stop the helpless giggles that spills from his mouth, he closes the short distance between them, placing his hands on the sides of Richie's face, holding firm, and kisses him. 

The moment he does, Eddie remembers he's never kissed anyone before in his life, that he's only daydreamed of Richie kissing him for a while now, not sure when those thoughts started, just felt like it was something always there, with him, something he carried with him his whole life—but he's never done it. 

He's never even liked watching people kiss, so his first kiss with Richie is awkward and bad, just a press of their lips together, oddly chaste given how hard they both are. Eddie lingers against Richie’s mouth for a bit and they stay like that for what feels like a painfully long moment, breathing into each other. The thought that he's doing this wrong occurs to him, that he should pull away, but he only pulls back just to kiss him again, and again, peppering his mouth with little kisses, Richie’s face in his hands, their lips making wet smacking noises against each other. 

Richie makes a helpless whimpering sound against him, muffled into Eddie’s mouth. His hands are on Eddie’s thighs now, resting there. Eddie thinks that means he must like this. That he's doing something right. 

Then, finally—Richie kisses back, with a soft, tentative slide of his tongue against Eddie’s lips, working a moan out of Eddie’s mouth as he jerks against him. Richie does it again, more licking than kissing, his tongue pushing against Eddie’s teeth now. 

Richie tastes like the weed they smoked earlier, musky and smoky and sweet, and also all the junk food they've consumed, the citrus from the oranges. He can taste bits of leftover crumbs on his tongue.  _ This is gross,  _ Eddie tells himself,  _ it's gross _ . 

He should tell Richie to brush his teeth before he puts his mouth on him, but stupidly, ridiculously, that made him want to kiss Richie more—every bit of his tongue was an invitation for more. He wanted Richie to taste like him. 

Eddie shifts again and manages to sit properly on Richie, both legs around his hips, straddling him. The closeness makes electric warmth sparkle up through his insides, Eddie’s stomach pooling with it, white-hot liquid heat. He finally breaks the kiss, both of them pulling away to pant into each other's mouths. His hands are still on Richie, holding him steady. 

If it weren't for their clothes, their cocks would be touching right about now. It was hard not to think about that. 

“Was that okay?” Eddie asks. “I've never done this before.”

Richie's lips are swollen. He gapes at Eddie, mouth opening and closing, like a goldfish. 

Eddie giggles in his face. “Have I found out how to shut you up, trashmouth?” 

Richie whimpers, and oh.  _ Oh.  _ Eddie likes that sound. He wants to keep hearing it. He wants to  _ make  _ Richie whimper. 

“Eds—”

“Don't call me Eds,” he says by sheer habit, and kisses him again. He misses his mouth and gets the corner of his lips instead. It's wet and sloppy and not very good. Richie’s glasses smash against his face. 

“Eds,” he pants. His breath is so warm. “I think I'm losing it.”

Eddie leans back a bit and looks Richie in the eyes. The whites were tinged red, but not in a bad way—more like he just didn't get enough sleep. His pupils were expanded, blown wide. 

“Richie,” Eddie says, carefully, glancing down at Richie. He can see the bulge in Richie’s jeans. Eddie licks his lips. He doesn't even feel nervous, anxiety melting with the heat. Like he can do anything. “Do you wanna, like, jerk off or something?”  _ We could jerk off to the movie,  _ Eddie idly thinks, his cock heavy at the thought—Richie staring at Phoebe Cates who he only pretending to be into, and Eddie staring at Richie, watching his hand slide up and down his shaft. 

The movie was still playing in the background, but Eddie had forgotten all about it. It was all gauzy white noise to him. 

Richie jerks up against him as he says that, hands grasping his hips. Eddie squeaks, the contact shocking him, a burst of heat shooting through him. They both make shaking, gasping noises.

Eddie wonders if they could get off just doing this. Kissing and humping. 

Eddie wonders if Richie wanted that. 

He keeps one hand around the back of Richie’s neck and another on his stomach, fascinated by the rise and fall of his chest and the things that did to his belly, his hand moving with it. He slides his hand lower, wanting to feel Richie’s cock, wanting to  _ see  _ it in the flesh before Eddie comes from overexcitement—and god, he just might. 

“You’re so hot,” Eddie whispers, looking down, feeling the outline of Richie’s cock twitch against his hand, even through the thick denim. He was finding it hard to hold on to the same solid thought. “Is this the weed or is that just you?”

“Holy fuck, Eds, what the fuck, you can't _ say _ shit like that,” Richie gasps. He pushes his glasses up his nose like he can't quite see Eddie correctly. 

“Stuff like what, jerking off? You talk about it all the time, you say disgusting things all the time,” Eddie says, recalling the times he's grabbed his dick and all the times he's mentioned all the girls he was fucking, that time he told Stan to tickle his pickle for once. “You do jerk off, right?” he teases, still giggling. 

“Yeah, fuck, Eddie, of course I do,” he breathes. Their heads knocked together, foreheads pressed against each other when Eddie leans forward, trying to get closer. Richie is so warm, his body heat radiating out like a furnace. All Eddie wants to do is curl up on him. Sit in his lap. Fall asleep in his arms. 

So fucking stupid. 

“Do  _ you _ ?” Richie asks, and he’s teasing back, their own language, joking like he always does, lips curved in a swollen smirk but the look in his eyes isn't a joke, it's hungry and heated. Eddie doesn't think he's ever been looked at like that. It makes his stomach flip, like riding his bike down a hill too fast. 

“Yeah, yeah,” Eddie stammers, trying not to just grind down on Richie. He was giddy with how turned on he was, couldn't think clearly, pot and arousal swirling around in his head. Eddie pushes his face against Richie, sort of nuzzling the side of his face. “Yeah, of course I do. I jerk off. Sometimes. My mom says—”

“Eddie, please, I know say a lot of stupid shit, I’ve brought this on myself, but if you talk about your mom with your hand on my cock, that  _ will  _ kill my boner.”

“—that only nasty little boys touch themselves.”

Richie laughs, breath gusting across his hair. It felt so nice. Everything about this felt nice. “Yeah, I am  _ nasty _ , thank you very much, Mrs. K knows all about that.”

Eddie scrunches up his nose. Figures Richie would take that as a compliment. 

“She scrubbed my hand with soap and scalding, hot water once, when she caught me,” he tells him. “She scrubbed until it was all red and told me not to do it again. Wanted me to be a clean and good little boy.”

Richie stops laughing entirely, even while Eddie lets out a giggle—it wasn't funny, really, he knows, but looking at it now, it just seems dumb, for her to get so worked up, when he knows better now, knows its all bullshit like the pills and his inhaler. 

He was eight years old, and Mommy talks a lot about diseases and how Eddie needed to be careful, all the time, until it got smashed up in his head into a maimsa of anxiety and worry and constant fear. His mom caught him with his hand down his pants and she pulled his hand away roughly, dragged him to the bathroom sink and scrubbed him with soap and hot water until he cried, until the water left a red mark on his skin. She said she was sorry after, that she didn't mean to make him cry, but that she had to stop him, to show him how wrong it was before it was too late. 

(mommy didn't want him to grow up)

It was hard to grab his dick without thinking of his mom—the image of her face, words burned in his mind, even if he knew it was bullshit.  _ Good little boys don't abuse themselves like that. Only nasty little boys with nasty thoughts.  _

He still did it, but it had to be for something really good, to get him all worked up, with his mind squirming and wriggling with other thoughts that took over completely. 

“Jesus, Eds,” Richie breaths out. 

Eddie, only half listening, pulls down Richie’s zipper, wanting to get  _ her  _ out of his had, wanting to think about Richie hard because of him instead. Richie grabs his hand, stilling him, preventing him from opening his jeans, and Eddie glances up, worrying he did something wrong, that he fucked this up, a  _ please  _ already on his lips, but Richie's eyes are all soft and warm and he nudges against him with his forehead, almost like a dog, their noses touching, nuzzling. 

“You're not a nasty little boy, you know,” he says softly, almost too softly. Eddie doesn't actually wanna hear this. He likes it better when Richie makes fun of him. 

Eddie shakes his head, takes a deep breath. “It’s okay, Richie, I think I wanna do some nasty things with you.” 

Mommy hates Richie, says he's a bad influence. A nasty boy who couldn't keep his nasty thoughts to himself and Eddie really fucking liked that about him. 

Richie stares at him, blinking, confused and Eddie knows he's said too much, maybe even killed the mood even if they're both still hard. Expects Richie to say,  _ that's the weed talking _ and maybe it is, but it just feels like something finally kicking itself out from under his ribs. 

Then Richie takes off his glasses—he lays them next to them on the other cushion, and Eddie thinks,  _ that's gonna get squished _ —and surges forward, kissing Eddie hard on the mouth, one hand cupping his chin and the other tangled up in Eddie’s hair. This is a hard, searing kiss, teeth clinking together, and not particularly experienced. 

Eddie whines for it, already feeling like he may fall off the edge. He forgets his fixation on Richie’s cock for a moment and just grabs on to him, hands on the back of his neck, trying not to fall off, pushing back into his mouth. He opens his mouth, and Richie’s tongue slips inside, licking against his teeth, his tongue, which feels so filthy he starts to shake. 

“Your hair is so fluffy,” Richie whispers into his mouth, tugging at his hair. “Is that product? What do you put in there?”

“It just grows that way,” Eddie hisses. He usually combs it or tries to make it lay flat, but he's been refusing to let Mommy cut it and the edges of it were starting to curl. 

“It's so fucking nice,” Richie gasps, fingers pulling at Eddie’s strands—hot short flashes of pressure pull of them, not quite pain, wholly exciting—and Eddie didn't have anything to say for that. He just moans into Richie’s mouth, and Richie finally pulls away, mouthing  _ Jesus.  _

“Do you want me to jerk you off?” Richie asks, but he is already going full steam ahead, like he can't be stopped, fumbling with the elastic waistband of his shorts. Eddie should help but he is transfixed by the motions, the sight--long pale fingers and dorito dust crusted under his nails, staining his shorts, shaking and trembling as he tugs it down, revealing Eddie’s briefs. Eddie could watch forever. “Because I want to.”

“Fuck yeah,” Eddie groans. 

It happens almost too fast for him to track, Richie’s hands on him, shoving his shorts roughly down in frazzled desperation, then peeling his briefs off and—fuck, there it was, Eddie’s cock, exposed and swollen. A flash of embarrassment finally hits him, whimpering  _ Richie _ as Richie grabs his cock, wrapping a fist around his dick. 

Oh.  _ Oh. Oh god. This was happening.  _

Eddie can't speak. He is nauseous suddenly—like pleasure careened into him so fast it came out the other side of him, nauseous and lightheaded and so turned on. 

“You got a pretty cock, Eds,” Richie says, something like awe in his voice. He's just holding his cock in his hand, not even moving, like he's forgotten what jerking off entails. 

“Shut up,” Eddie gasps, nearly stuttering out the words. Richie's hand is so hot on his dick. He thrusts forward, his hips moving of their own volition, pushing forward into Richie’s hand. He didn't even  _ mean  _ to, they just did that, jerking forward in response, out of his control. Eddie pants, trying to catch his breath and he can't. “It's not pretty. I'm not pretty.”

“You're so pretty and cute,” Richie says, ineptly kissing the side of his chin, his cheek. “God, I knew you'd be pretty”

Richie slowly strokes his shaft, just one firm stroke, his fingers lingering on the underside for a bit, thumb under the head of his cock, and Eddie whines so loud it's embarrassing. 

“You knew?” he manages to say. It comes out like moan. He keeps looking up and down, so fast his head is gonna get whiplash, down at Richie’s hand on his cock and then at Richie himself, biting his lip between his teeth in concentration, staring down at Eddie's cock now with his mouth just hanging open. 

“I think about your cock a lot,” Richie confesses, gasping the words out like they were ripped from him, like  _ he  _ was getting jerked off, Eddie isn't even sure he meant to say it, words slipping out. 

Richie rubs his thumb over the head of his cock, smearing fluid all around, and it hits Eddie like a mack truck, this overwhelming warmth and pressure pooling in his belly, flashing hot and bright inside until it shoots out of him, his cock throbbing, his groin aching. Eddie grabs onto Richie too tightly, his nails digging into the skin of his neck as he gasps and humps into his hand. 

It feels so good he  _ might die.  _ His limbs are warm and heavy and languid, and there's a queasy-good feeling in his stomach, like a roller coaster ride, going down. He feels like he did  _ die  _ and became another person, and that thought is so stupid he starts laughing, another giggling fit hitting him. 

“Oh god,” Richie whimpers. He keeps staring at Eddie’s face and his hand is covered with Eddie’s jizz and Eddie kinda likes that thought, spunk all over Richie’s hand,  _ his spunk _ , his his his— 

“Oh god, I'm sorry,” Richie says, with genuine panic in his voice and Eddie doesn't get it. He doesn't feel panic. This is the most relaxed he's been in his life, never even felt this good the other times he's gotten himself off. 

He lolls his head against Richie’s, meeting his wide eyes—his normally messy hair was sweat slick and stuck to his skin. 

“That was nice,” Eddie tells him. His shoulders shake trying to hold down a laugh. “I liked that,” he says, and tucks his head under Richie’s chin, where he fits perfectly. He can feel Richie nose against his hair, breathing in his scent. Eddie thinks about closing his eyes and just falling asleep like this. He could. He's so comfortable. He's never been this comfortable. 

“I thought you'd think it's gross,” Richie says.

This angle, he can see Richie's hand still dripping with his come, not yet figured out what to do with it. It’s an oddly intoxicating sight. 

_ I did that.  _

Eddie smiles. 

“Objectively it is,” Eddie says. Lazily, like he has all the time in the world, he starts to one-handedly undo his jeans, fumbling with the button. Richie makes a small noise against his hair. “It's gross. But I like it.”

_ I like it anyway,  _ or maybe,  _ I like it because of it.  _

Zipper done, he slides his hand into Richie’s already sticky-slick underwear, plastered and form fitting against his cock. They both gasp when Eddie gets a hand on it, just pressing his palm into his bare skin

“You don't gotta do that,” Richie whimpers above him. He, at last, wipes his hand against the couch arm rest.  _ Gross _ , but Eddie’s brain just wasn't registering the sheer grossness of that, so focused on how Richie’s cock pulses and throbs in his hand. 

“I wanna see your cock,” Eddie says and savors the groan Richie makes, the noise cutting into Eddie. He finally lowers his underwear to reveal Richie’s cock, twitching, ready to burst. “I think about you, too.”

He wraps his hand around Richie’s cock, squeezing down tight, maybe a little too tight, but Richie doesn't complain, just makes a  _ yelping _ noise. Richie’s cock is bigger than his, and a bit longer. The head of his cock looks different than his and he wasn't circumcised. Feels different, the angle a little awkward and not what he's used to, but Eddie doesn't waste time, just grabs on and tugs upward, then down until he brushes against dark coarse hair and his balls. 

“ _ Fuck,”  _ Richie hisses between his teeth. 

For once, Eddie isn't looking at him. His eyes are drawn to the thick swell of his cock, how it curved up from the thatch of dark hair, utterly fascinated. It was hot in hand, hotter than the rest of him, but slick, even without spit, Richie was leaking all over, easy to move his fist up and down. Eddie suddenly, really wants to know what he tastes like down there, how thick and musky the flavor of him would be. Richie’s cock is  _ fascinating  _ him. He could jack him off for hours. 

“Is that good?” Eddie asks, still not sure what he's doing. Squeezing seems good. Rubbing the head seems to make Richie groan with his whole chest, rumbling into him. 

“That's fucking perfect, Eds,” he babbled into his hair. Richie arches forward, closer, pulling Eddie closer to him, arm around his back, shoving them together. Eddie shudders, spent cock twitching, wondering if he could come again. 

Eddie watches his fingers curl tight around the head of his dick. He smears the fluid coming out from the slit, shuddering with Richie as he does so, breathlessly turned on. 

“I wanna taste it,” Eddie says, and Richie comes right there, his moans muffled into his hair, hips bouncing up into Eddie, thrusting his pulsing cock into his hand. His come is hot and thick and Eddie isn't prepared for it—it gets on his hand and clothes and some hits him in the chin because his head was tilted down at just the right angle to catch it. 

Eddie gasps, pulling back, mouth hanging open. Richie’s shoulders are shaking as he slumps back into the couch. His face is bright red, flushed all the way. He blinks heavily and rapidly, breathing hard. It takes a moment for his eyes to zero in and focus on Eddie, a lazy dazed look in his eyes. They look small without his glasses on and somehow more vulnerable. 

Eddie, still stuck on  _ holy shit _ , blinks back at Richie. “Fuck,” he whispers softly and with feeling. “I made you come.”

His hand is all coated with Richie’s spunk. Eddie is remembering how unsanitary this is, but the edges of his mind is slow and heavy and languid from the weed smoke in his system and it's a more pleasant place to be rather than his constant anxiety. Makes him look at his messy hand with curiosity over anything else, something hot stirring in his belly at the image, white, smelly fluid on his tan skin. 

“I'm sorry,” Richie mummers, reaching out to stroke his chin with his hand. Wiping away his come, Eddie realizes. Richie’s hand is sweaty and warm on his skin, and he hates it when Richie pulls away. “I didn't mean to, this must be killing you.”

Eddie laughs. “Nah,” he says, though he isn't sure how to clean his hand. Tissues, or a sock, but his brain hangs up—he's wearing his socks and his Kleenex is in his room. 

Eddie reaches forward to wipe his hand on Richie’s jeans— 

“ _ Dude.  _ Eds. No,” Richie says. 

So instead Eddie brings his hand under his nose, sniffing tentatively. He didn't know why—it smells basically like his own and not terribly distinctive. 

His tongue darts out as he allows himself to lick a bit of the white fluid off his hand. 

“Holy shit,  _ Eddie, _ ” Richie said. 

It was thick in his mouth and didn't really taste good, but it didn't taste awful either. 

Eddie looks back up at Richie and smiles, feeling the corners of his lips pull up, his mouth strangely heavy and numb. 

Then it hits him. The stomach twisting. The nausea feeling that had been mixed up with pleasure and excitement, now just pure nausea. 

He grabs hold of Richie's shoulder with his still dirty hand and throws up the contents of his stomach, thick, chunky, orange tinged puke. All over the couch cushion. All over Richie’s glasses. 

Richie is dead silent for a moment. It hangs heavy and suffocating in the air. 

“Way to tell a man he tastes like shit, Eddie.”

Ugh. 

“Shut the fuck up trashmouth,” he breathes. He can taste pukey remains in his mouth, his tongue lolling out a bit, trying to get the gross chunky taste out. Stomach acid burning through him. His throat burned and his stomach was still squirming. “Help me clean this shit up.”

  
  


*

  
  


At least it didn't land on Richie. 

Small comforts. 

Eddie had scrubbed and scrubbed the couch to get the puke off, and he had mostly succeeded, but there was still a stain discoloring the brown color of the couch, obvious and clear, and it was starting to feel overwhelming. 

If not puke, then the goddamn semen Richie smeared on the arm rest needed to be bleached off, the orange citrus that leaked on the wooden coffee table, turning it grossly sticky, the faint smell of Richie’s goddamn feet on the table. 

The pot had worn off, sadly, unfortunately. The movie was over. The post orgasmic afterglow was gone and all that was left was crushing anxiety, his mind racing with thoughts of what his mom would say when she gets home. How he would have to explain those stains, wondering if she'd notice that was a jizz stain, or if she'd see he got sick on the couch and take him to the ER and maybe never leave him alone again. 

In general, Eddie was the cleaner one of them. Sonia tended to leave stuff lying around, items pooled and stacked together, bills and mail piled up, food wrappers, disorganized food cabinets. Mommy had transferred her fear of germs onto him and Eddie perpetuated it into keeping everything clean as much as he could. 

“We’ll get it clean, don't worry, Eds,” Richie’s voice echoes behind him. Eddie really wants to believe him, but he's going to have to bleach this couch. The stain won't come off. His chest hurts. He wants to cry. 

“I don't see you doing anything—”

Eddie spins around, glancing up at Richie. Richie is wiping the puke off his glasses with a dish towel—_fuck, Eddie is gonna have to wash that_ _too—_and then just slips the glasses on his face like no big deal. 

“Holy shit,” Eddie hisses and snatches them off his face. He grabs the Lysol wipes and starts rubbing them down. “Disinfect them at least, god, you're disgusting.”

“I'm disgusting? That's  _ your  _ puke.”

“You're the one  _ wearing  _ my puke,” Eddie says, but it causes a visceral stomach twisting reaction in him. He wants to crawl into a hole, shame and humiliation burning in his cheeks. He wants to go back to the carefree warm lightheaded feeling he was riding after jerking each other off and not  _ this.  _

Not the constant anxious stomach churning worry. 

Richie scoffs and grabs his glasses back from Eddie, their fingers brushing. “It's not like I'm gonna get anything from  _ your  _ puke. It's probably cleaner than my mouth.”

_ You had your tongue in my mouth,  _ Eddie thinks with a shudder, but even now, it's not an entirely unpleasant one. 

Without even realizing, he moves his fingers to his lips, lingering, as if he could touch whatever Richie left behind on him and not just his own puke. It feels filthy to think about Richie like that— _ he tasted like fucking Doritos— _ but exciting too, mulling it over in his mind, repeating the moment over and over.

“Richie,” Eddie gasps. “I'm constantly sick.”

Richie shrugs. “Yet I never catch anything from you. I must be immune to your germs.”

_ It’s because I'm always disinfecting!  _ he almost shouts at him, but he stops in his tracks, the reality of it painfully stark and undeniable, hitting him hard in his belly. 

It's because he's not really sick. 

Eddie thinks the pot is out of his system. Maybe. He has no excuse for what he says next. 

“This is bullshit,” Eddie says, softly. He glances at the couch, at the evidence at teenage debauchery—come and weed and junk food, and he's so so tired of his constant anxiety. All for goddamn nothing. For a fucking lie his mom planted in his head. 

“Eds?” Richie says softly, reaching out. His hand lands on his shoulder, squeezing lightly. Slight touch. Richie's touched him so many times his whole life but this feels electric. “You're shaking.”

Eddie is, hands trembling. He can't stop himself but Richie’s hands feel warm. 

_ Gazebo,  _ he called it at first, because the word itself was strange and wrong in his mouth,  _ placebo  _ not fitting in his mouth. It still feels wrong, that Greta knows about this and not Richie. Not any of the losers. Eddie could barely bring himself to say the words out loud. It's so fucking stupid. Why was it easier to fight an evil fucking clown than tell his friend how he isn't really sick?

Eddie shakes his head. “It's all fucking bullshit,” he says. He grabs the cushion he threw up on and turns it around, hiding the stain. Goes to grab another dish towel from the kitchen and throws it on the arm rest. It's a shit job. 

“I don't fucking care, it's all just bullshit,” he says, words trembling with him as he spoke but he meant it, hands curling into a fist. For a moment of white hot rage, he thinks of turning over this whole coffee table. 

“Whoa whoa whoa,” Richie says and grabs him by the waist, pulling him away from the table and setting him back down on the couch with an  _ oomph _ . His breath leaves him and Eddie is panting hard. His head was pounding with his heart rate and he realizes he was moving to kick the goddamn thing. “Just calm down, Tasmanian devil, no need to wreck everything.”

Eddie takes a sharp deep breath and looks up at Richie, drawn to the lines of his jaw and cheekbones, his pink lips and flushed skin. 

Eddie really wants to kiss him again. It's less a sucker punch of a feeling and a warm blanket of longing and desire, covered in it. 

“Stay the night,” he tells him. Not a request. 

“But you—”

“I want you to stay,” Eddie says. His chest hurts, like he is going to fly into an asthma attack, but looking at Richie settles his nerves, even if it's temporary. He can tell Richie doesn't fully get his change in mood but the nice thing about Richie is how willing he is to indulge him. 

“Okay,” he says, sitting down, shoulder to shoulder. He slowly takes his hand into his own, interlocking their fingers. He does this so slowly, like he's waiting for Eddie to pull away. 

Eddie doesn't want to put this back in the box, but he doesn't know how to say what he wants, doesn't have the vocabulary for it. He doesn't know how to say,  _ let's just be together,  _ and he doesn't want to say,  _ I wanna jerk you off again,  _ because somehow that wasn't nearly enough for what he actually wanted it. His courage twists in his stomach, throbs in his throat. 

They put on  _ The Lost Boys _ . Unlike  _ Fast Times,  _ they both like this movie—Eddie likes horror and Richie likes comedies and this was somehow the perfect marriage of them both. Eddie gets back in Richie’s lap, lying across the couch, head resting on his thighs, while he stares at Jason Patrick and his long curls and dark leather jacket. Richie strokes his hair—less idly this time, more purposefully, like he didn't want to stop touching him. 

Eddie wants to just disappear into Richie's skin, live there for a while. 

“You can touch me again,” Eddie whispers. He twists his head up, away from the screen to look towards Richie. The glow of the television wasn't as warm as his gaze. “If you want.”

Richie swallows hard, pushes his glasses up his nose. Eddie expects a joke to undercut everything, but when he speaks, his words come with a frightful hesitation. “You really want that?” Like he didn't believe it. His hand rests warmly on the back of Eddie’s neck. 

“It's okay,” Eddie says. His body doesn't flush with heat or embarrassment. He's not high anymore, he thinks, feels more clear headed now, but there's an unfamiliar calm undercurrent to his feelings, like floating in the quarry on a clear summer day. “I want you.”

“Oh,” Richie says, and when that's not enough, he leans down and kisses Eddie on the forehead, leaving a sticky wet imprint in his skin. 

They fall asleep curled up together on the couch, movie still playing. 


End file.
